


A thing for fools, this

by clairvoie



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Inspired by Hannibal, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Prose Poem, but not explicitly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 04:53:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12335871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clairvoie/pseuds/clairvoie
Summary: But isn’t that the point? To create a world just for us?





	A thing for fools, this

**Author's Note:**

> "‘Tis a fearful thing to love what death can touch."  
> Yehuda HaLevi

I keep leaving the candles burning inside the house. I am not aiming for fire, I’m not trying to burn the curtains or set aflame the wood panelling. I don’t know what to tell you. I just forget.

I’m tired of telling stories like a genealogy map. It’s often more like roots underneath the dirt, and less like a printed chart. I’m tired of waiting for this to make sense. All I know is that hitting water feels like a fist to the throat. Breathtaking, everything white-blue and depthless-black and freezing cold in the nighttime.

I don’t know where the moon came from, but it’s there. It’s there and she is always watching us.

I don’t know what makes the mountain scream, but it is angry, and the walls are too high to climb. Come here, darling. Come here and have patience, because it will take an hour for the blanket to come and cover us for sleep. And when it does, we will rest quietly knowing the dust will hold us. But for now, I feel frightened. Your laughter shaking through me as if it’s here. Your words under my tongue as if they’ve left your mouth. Frightening to leave you, to leave this. What a terrible thing, isn’t it?

You see, it doesn’t make sense. The water washing over us, the mountain waiting for release, the dirt thrown on top of our open caskets out of shame. No one knows what that fucking means. I think it means I’m waiting for you to come home, kitchen-sitting with a knife, with a gun. I think it means your hands on me, my hands on you, inside of you. This life, what a cruel one. To mean nothing, to mean everything; a wicked world. Yet, what damaged skin could keep me from crawling back to you?   

The air was cold out by the sea, and the wind kept me moving, braced against the sails. I know you’re crying somewhere high up on the ferris wheel, standing in your blood somewhere unremarkable. I know you’ve been screaming for me in the fields. I’m behind you, I’m looking for you. This love, a cruel one. There’s nothing soft about it, only moments when the sharp sides become dull.

Earthly bodies, submissive under pleasure. Earthly bodies subject to ripping and dethreading and rot, with no warranty deals. I know you wanted something bigger. Actually, no, I think I wanted something smaller. I can’t quite remember where either of us came from before this. But isn’t that the point? To create a world just for us?

Earthbound and destructive in practice. Voices too low and nails too long. Teeth too sharp. The running isn’t fun anymore, my love. The running is just breaking my legs, no longer feeding adrenaline to me like drowning in water and resurfacing.

I know you needed something. I know we needed this. I want to let you have it, so come inside. It doesn’t have to make sense.   


End file.
